TO THE Honourable H—E W—E Horace Walpole, 4th Earl of Orford (1717-1797), poet, novelist, and Whig politician, was the author of the "first Gothic novel" , first published in 1764. , ON READING The CASTLE of OTRANTO . December , 1784. To praise thee , Walpole , asks a pen divine , And common sense to me is hardly given , Bianca's Pen now owns the daring line , And who expects her muse should drop from Heaven . My fluttering tongue , light , ever veering round , On Wisdom's narrow point has never fix'd ; I dearly love to hear the ceaseless sound , Where Noise and Nonsense are completely mix'd . The empty tattle , true to female rules , In which thy happier talents ne'er appear , Is mine , nor mine alone , for mimic fools , Who boast thy sex , Bianca's foibles wear . Supreme in prate shall woman ever sit , While Wisdom smiles to hear the senseless squall ; Nature , who gave me tongue , deny'd me wit , Folly I worship , and she claims me all The drowsy eye , half-closing to the lid , Stares on Otranto's walls ; grim terrors rise , The horrid helmet strikes my soul unbid , And with thy Conrad , lo ! Bianca dies . Funereal plumes now wave ; Alphonso's ghost Frowns o'er my shoulder ; silence aids the scene , The taper's flame , in fancy'd blueness lost , Pale spectres shews , to Manfred only seen . Ah ! Manfred ! thine are bitter draughts of woe , Strong gusts of passion hurl thee on thy fate ; Tho' eager to elude , thou meet'st the blow , And for Ricardo Manfred weeps in state . By all the joys which treasur'd virtues yield , I feel thy agonies in Walpole's line ; Love , pride , revenge , by turns maintain the field , And hourly tortures rend my heart for thine . Hail , magic pen , that strongly paint'st the soul , Where fell Ambition holds his wildest roar , The whirlwind rages to the distant pole , And virtue , stranded , pleads her cause no more . Where's Manfred's refuge ? Walpole , tell me where ? Thy pen to great St. Nicholas points the eye ; E'en Manfred calls to guard Alphonso's heir , Tho' conscious shame oft gives his tongue the lie . Matilda ! ah , how soft thy yielding mind , When hard obedience cleaves thy timid heart ! How nobly strong , when love and virtue join'd To melt thy soul and take a lover's part ! Ah , rigid duties , which two souls divide ! Whose iron talons rend the panting breast ! Pluck the dear image from the widow'd side , Where Love had lull'd its every care to rest . Hypolita ! fond , passive to excess , Her low submission suits not souls like mine ; Bianca might have lov'd her Manfred less , Not offer'd less at great Religion's shrine . Implicit Faith , all hail ! Imperial man Exacts submission ; reason we resign ; Against our senses we adopt the plan Which Reverence , Fear , and Folly think divine . But be it so , Bianca ne'er shall prate , Nor Isabella's equal powers reveal ; You Manfreds boast your power , and prize your state ; We ladies our omnipotence conceal . But , Oh ! then strange-inventing Walpole , guide , Ah ! guide me thro' thy subterranean isles , Ope the trap-door where all thy powers reside , And mimic Fancy real woe beguiles . The kind inventress dries the streaming tear , The deep-resounding groan shall faintly die , The sigh shall sicken ere it meet the air , And Sorrow's dismal troop affrighted fly . Thy jawless skeleton of Joppa's wood Stares in my face , and frights my mental eye ; Not stiffen'd worse the love-sick Frederic stood , When the dim spectre shriek'd the dismal cry . But whilst the Hermit does my soul affright , Love dies — Lo ! in yon corner down he kneels ; I shudder , see the taper sinks in night , He rises , and his fleshless form reveals . Hide me , thou parent Earth ! see low I fall , My sins now meet me in the fainting hour ; Say , do thy Manes for Heaven's vengeance call , Or can I free thee from an angry power ? Stella ! if Walpole's spectres thus can scare , Then near that great Magician's walls ne'er tread , He'll surely conjure many a spirit there , Till , fear-struck , thou art number'd with the dead . Oh ! with this noble Sorcerer ne'er converse ; Fly , Stella , quickly from the magic storm ; Or , soon he'll close thee in some high-plum'd hearse , Then raise another Angel in thy form . Trust not his art , for should he stop thy breath , And good Alphonso's ghost unbidden rise ; He'd vanish , leave thee in the jaws of death , And quite forget to close thy aching eyes . But is Bianca safe in this slow vale ? For should his Goblins stretch their dusky wing , Would they not bruise me for the saucy tale , Would they not pinch me for the truths I sing ? Yet whisper not I've call'd him names , I fear His Ariel would my hapless sprite torment , He'd cramp my bones , and all my sinews tear , Should Stella blab the secret I'd prevent . But hush , ye winds , ye crickets chirp no more , I'll shrink to bed , nor these sad omens hear ; An hideous rustling shakes the lattic'd door , His spirits hover in the sightless air . Now , Morpheus , shut each entrance of my mind , Sink , sink , Otranto , in this vacant hour ; To thee , Oh , balmy God ! I'm all resign'd , To thee e'en Walpole's wand resigns its power .